Peace, Love, Empathy
by 24QueenMo
Summary: I run my hand through my long dirty-blond hair, not sure what I'm feeling. I don't know to feel. Sad? Yes. Anger? Definitely.


**I've said most of my one-shots suck, but this one honestly does. Anyway . . . **

**Note: This is a historical fiction. So some of the things really did happen. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything.**

**April 08, 1994**

"Hi, I'm Kurt Loder with an MTV special report on a very sad day," said the MTV news anchor. "Kurt Cobain, the leader of one of the most gifted and promising bands Nirvana, is dead. And this is the story we know so far. Cobain's body was found at a house in Seattle Friday morning. He was dead apparently of a self-inflicted shotgun blast to the head. Police found what is said to be a suicide note at the scene, but—" I turn the TV off.

I stare at it in disbelief, not wanting to hear anymore then I already did. This can't be happening, can it? My hero, my icon is _dead_. Kurt Donald Cobain, age 27, is dead.

I run my hand through my long dirty-blond hair, not sure what I'm feeling. I don't know to feel. Sad? Yes. Anger? Definitely.

But the only word I can think of is _dead_. He's dead. The man I look up to. The man I wanted to be like (hell, I'm dressed the part) is dead.

Not knowing what to do with myself, I go upstairs and hope to God I wake up from this nightmare.

**April 11, 1994**

School is awful. I always hated school. People hated me. But today was bad, really bad.

It all started in the beginning. It turns out that one of our classmates, Tawni Hart, is dead, too. She was also like me, a diehard Nirvana/Kurt Cobain fan. The rumor is that she killed herself shortly after the news broke. Tawni had always been kind-of unstable. When the whole March incident happened (the one where Kurt went into a coma) she called me and was . . . well, freaking out. Either way, she is dead. And I can't see how my life can get any worse.

After that announcement was made, they gave us some number for a helpline. I quickly and discreetly wrote the number down. Honestly, I think this number is my last hope.

So I sit in my classes, waiting for school to end.

"Did you hear the news, Chad?" Nico says, one of the biggest jerks in the school. "Your hero is dead. Kurt Cobain killed himself."

"I know," I reply, not wanting to talk. Honestly, I rather listen to what the teacher has to say now.

"Ha, look at yourself. You still dress like him," a girl scoffs.

I look at her. I don't think I've ever talked to this girl in my life. "I don't even know you. So shut up!" I hiss. She crosses her arms and turns away.

As of late, I want to crawl into a heart-shaped box and die. Just like Kurt and Tawni.

**April 12, 1994**

People were still looking at me in the halls and making faces. I want to say, "Fuck you," but I didn't have the strength and energy to do so. It seemed like every hour it got worse. Everything was blurry and meaningless. No one is here for me. My parents mock Kurt during dinner.

"That drug addict you love is dead," my mom says to me. She has this smug look on her face.

I want to slap her. But I don't. I just look at her with blank eyes. My blue eyes are now dull. They're not shinny anymore.

"Killed himself," my dad mumbles, not looking up from the paper. "What a coward. He left a daughter and wife."

"People are _so_ selfish these days." Then my mom turns to me. "What did you see in that man?" she asks me.

I look at her with my dead eyes and say nothing.

"Chad," my father interrupts. "Your mother asked you a question. And what did you see in that _pathetic_ drug addict?"

"His music spoke to me. It was like someone finally understood me. I didn't feel like an outcast anymore. I felt like I was part of something. I was part of his little tribe." I can't stand them anymore. I grab my food and go upstairs eat there, listening to _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ over and over and over.

**April 15, 1994**

I've spent the last few nights eating dinner in my room. My mom gave up on me. Actually both my mom _and_ dad gave up on me. But there is one thing that I don't think will give up on me. And that's the tiny little paper with the number.

I grab my phone and call the number.

"Hello?" a pleasant girl's voice answers.

"Hi," I say, a little wary. "Is this the helpline that they gave out at school?"

"Yes," says the girl.

"Oh, great! My name is—"

"No," she says quickly. "This is _anonymous_ helpline. You won't say your name and neither will I."

"Okay . . ."

"It's easier this way, you know? Then at school we don't know each other."

"Right . . ."

"So what is your problem?"

"Kurt Cobain," I say.

"That singer who died?" she asks.

"Yeah. I looked up to him. And so did my other friend, but . . ."

"But what?" she asks gently. I can tell she wants the truth.

I take a deep breath and say, "She killed herself. After Kurt died, my friend killed herself," and then I start to sob. Everyone left me. Kurt. Tawni. My parents.

"Um, well, I'm sorry," she says, flustered. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"I don't know. It just feels good to finally say what is on my mind. Everyday I listened to Nirvana's songs. They made me feel . . . calm. And now that he's gone, I'm alone. I'm just the lonely kid in flannel jacket, ripped jeans, and high-tops. Oh, and don't get me started on the hair. My hair is just a long blond greasy mess. I don't what to do anymore."

"First off, don't do drugs. They're not good for anyone. And I would know that best," she mumbles the last part bitterly. "If you are on drugs, seek help. Plus, do not cut yourself. That doesn't help, either."

"Why would I want to cut myself? I'm not an emo freak."

"That's what most kids do when they go through a bad time. Do drugs, cut themselves, you know . . . stuff like that. Isn't Kurt Cobain's band emo?" she asks.

"No. Nirvana is grunge. There is a difference," I say defensively.

"I don't think there is."

"I thought you're supposed to help me? Not tell me I'm emo."

"I never said you were emo! I said, 'Isn't Kurt Cobain's band emo?'"

"Yeah, whatever. You supposed to be helping me. Not fighting me. Don't you see I'm going through a rough time?" I yell into the phone.

She's quiet for a moment. "You need to calm down. Take some deep breaths," she instructs.

I listen to her, taking deep breaths. It seems to help . . . sort of.

"Do you feel better?" she asks.

"Yeah, I do," I say.

**June 7, 1994**

"How's it going?"

That is the first thing the girl from the helpline says. It's been that way for nearly two months. We don't talk about my problems anymore. Nowadays, she's asking me for advice. Not that I mind. It's good to have a friend. But it's still weird not knowing what the girl on the phone looks like.

I do ask if we can meet, but she says no. It upsets me, because this girl is, like, my new best friend. I guess that's just the way it works. Though a little part of me hopes that someday we'll meet. Maybe not today or tomorrow but someday we will meet. I know it.

She really helped me get over that rough patch in my life, the one where I mourn the loss of my favorite rock star. Now everything's changing. School is nearly over, my hair is quite short, and my clothes aren't so grunge-looking anymore. It's really different from how I used to dress, so I'm still getting used to it. My parents are talking to me again, which is nice in a way. Though, it seems, like my life's back on track, there's still one thing that I'm dreading: The ending of these phone calls. Since the end of school is coming up, this girl and I won't talk again.

After our usual two-plus hours of conversing, we have to say goodbye. For good.

"I'm going to miss you," I say.

"Me too," she replies.

"If it wasn't for you, I'd still be a mess."

"Aw, you're making me blush!" She lets out this adorable giggle.

"No, really, I mean it. I don't think I could have done this without you."

"Oh, stop it!"

I hesitate a moment. "I love you."

That had to be the number one most stupid things ever. I blurt, _I love you_ to a girl I don't even know? Yeah. I'm an idiot.

"Um . . . I have to go," she says. "Bye!" She hangs up. End of conversation(s).

"Bye," I whisper to the phone and hang up as well.

**October 31, 2002**

I turn on the radio, trying to find something to good. The light turned green, so I left it on some station.

That's when I hear his voice. I can tell Kurt Cobain's voice anywhere. It is so familiar. But the song isn't. It's the new one that came out on the best-of album. It brings back so many memories, good and bad. It brings back the ones where I first heard Nirvana and when I first found out Kurt died.

It also reminds me of that girl. The girl whose name I never found out. I'll never forget her voice, just like I won't forget Kurt's. She was the one who brought me back to life, showed me that life will go on. And convinced me to wash my hair and cut it.

Through the rain, I see that the light turned red. I slam on my brakes just in time, but the person behind me doesn't. Suddenly, my car jerks forward into the intersection. Then another car slams into me. I loose control. My car is spinning around and around. This can't be happening. My car stops, hitting a street post, inches from me.

"Oh, my God," I mutter. I slowly feel myself. It doesn't look like any bones are broken and I don't see any blood. But my car is totaled. Shit.

I open the door and see someone up to me in the rain.

"Oh, my God!" the person says. "Are you okay?" It's a girl. She's pretty—beautiful, even.

"I'm fine," I say.

"I'm so sorry!" says the girl, helping me out. "This is my entire fault and . . ." She trails off and starts to mutter to herself. "Oh, how can this day get any worse? I'm crying so hard, I couldn't see the car in front of me. Oh, God!" She buries her face in her hands. I feel sorry for the girl. "Look at me! I almost killed someone."

"I'm Chad," I say, holding my hand out.

She takes it in hers, shaking it. "Um, well, I'm really sorry, Chad. I ruined your car and it's Halloween. Oh, I'm Alison. I don't think I mentioned that yet."

"It's okay," I say. "I didn't even buy candy this year." I laugh without humor.

"I was out, trying to by candy, but then I hear this song that reminds me of some guy I kinda fell in love with, even though I never knew him . . . Oh, God, I'm rambling again. I'm sorry."

"Wait, did you work on some helpline at West Appleton High School?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"And are you talking about a boy who used to call every day, talking about Kurt Cobain?"

"Yes," she whispers, looking in my eyes. "Are you that boy?"

"Yeah," I whisper back.

"Wow . . . I've spent the last eight years, thinking about you. I've tried to forget you, telling myself that I can find someone just as special as you. But I could never get you out of my head. And when I finally meet you, I wreck your car just because I was thinking of you." She stops, shaking her head. "I'm not making any sense at all. But to keep it simple, I'm still in love you."

"So . . . you're in love with a boy you met over the phone eight years ago?" I ask.

"Sadly, yes," she says, laughing and crying. "I totally get if you don't feel the same way, because hot guys don't like girls like me and—"

I cut her short by crashing my lips to hers. Yes, this is the most cliché thing ever, but I love it.

"That was so romantic," she murmurs, looking into my eyes.

"I'll be your Kurt if you'll be my Courtney," I blurt. She looks at me. I'm getting slightly nervous with that look on her face. It's unreadable. "So?"

"Yes," she replies.

I smile and she smiles. And truth be told, I haven't been this happy in a long time . . . ignoring the fact that my brand-new car is totaled.

**I know this is awful, but please don't flame me. And leave a review. Those always make me happy. ;)**


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